


If I Hadn’t Blown the Whole Thing Years Ago (I Might Not Be Alone)

by yaycoffee



Series: LWS Trope Bingo [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Jealousy, M/M, Oblivious John, Pining Sherlock, Unrequited Love, and he can't have it, sherlock finally realises what he wants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2055117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaycoffee/pseuds/yaycoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In one quiet evening, Sherlock realises how badly he's blown his chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Hadn’t Blown the Whole Thing Years Ago (I Might Not Be Alone)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [letswritesherlock Trope Bingo Challenge](http://letswritesherlock.tumblr.com/post/92844722125/challenge-15-trope-bingo-how-does-one-play). (Card 1, prompt: jealousy)
> 
> I am organizing all the stories I write for the LWS Challenge into a series. The stories will be one-off pieces with unconnected timelines and plotlines.

Sherlock rings the bell and waits. He fiddles a bit with the wine bottle in his hands, fitting his thumbnail into the edge of the foil around the base of its neck. He doesn’t wait long.

John answers with a bright smile. “Sherlock! Come in!” The skin around his eyes is crinkled, irises shining, and Sherlock doesn’t even realise he’s staring until John cocks his head a bit. “Or, you could stay out there. I’ll pass you a plate when dinner is ready.”

Sherlock shakes his head once and steps over the threshold smoothly. “Won’t be necessary,” he says, trying to recover with a crooked smile. John points to the bottle in his hands, and Sherlock holds it out to him stiffly. “I remembered that this was your favorite,” Sherlock says. But how much has changed since then? Is it still? Perhaps John’s taste has moved on to some new variety in the past two years.

“Thank you,” John says. “I’ll just go open it, let it breathe a bit. Mary’s just finishing up in the kitchen.” He sets the bottle down on an end table. “But first, let me get your coat. I’ll put it in the study.” Sherlock shucks his coat and scarf and hands them to John, who folds them over an arm before picking up the bottle again and moving out of the room. The house smells strongly of lasagna and garlic bread. It is heady and warm, almost stiflingly so. Mary calls hello from the kitchen without emerging, and Sherlock answers back briefly as he surveys this mostly-beige living room, wondering how on earth this is John Watson’s home.

It’s tidy and trendy, airy and modern. Nothing overtly floral apart from the busy wallpapering on one wall. Unlike Baker Street, the things here are deliberately placed, bought to try and coordinate, to blend two sets of belongings together. He can clearly see where John and Mary’s things begin and end—the heavy fabric of the sofa (John), the cushions that try to match while adding a feminine softness (Mary), the clean lines and dark colour of the lamps and end tables (John), and the oddness of the whimsical little star dangling from the handle of a glass-fronted cupboard (Mary). On the shelves, only half the books have ever been opened. There is a compass and a clock, both made to look old but aren’t. The clock is functional; the compass isn’t. The carpeting has been freshly hoovered, there isn’t a speck of dust anywhere, and on the coffee table, the television remote is worn to almost nothing on the centre button.

When John returns, he has two wine glasses in his hands—white, not the red Sherlock brought. “Mary said we should save the red for dinner.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, accepting the offered glass. He takes a sip. It is light and crisp and tastes almost of nothing at all. He takes another sip.

Sherlock doesn’t know what to say, so he follows John’s lead, sitting in an armchair when John sits on the couch. “Any, er… any news on the elephant thing?”

Sherlock frowns. “No. All the pieces are there; I just can’t seem to line them up to make any sense.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll have it worked out in no time.”

Sherlock hums, a noncommittal sound that could mean anything at all. It’s a deflection, but he doesn’t care. He can’t think about work in this room (can’t _think_ ). His mind feels as beige as the walls around him. Just then, Mary comes in from the kitchen with her own glass of wine, brushing hair out of her eyes with a sweep of her hand.

“Sorry,” she says, biting her lip. “That took a bit longer than I expected.” She turns to Sherlock, smiling. She bends down to kiss him on the cheek. “Good to see you, Sherlock.”

“Hello, Mary,” Sherlock says. She’s got flour under her fingernails and a fleck of sauce on the front of her blouse.

She sits next to John on the sofa, curls her legs under her and presses into his side. John switches his wineglass hand so he can fit an arm around her. His thumb brushes little circles on her shoulder, creasing the fabric, and Sherlock watches as she half-closes her eyes and leans into the touch. When she brings up her hand to wrap around his, her engagement ring catches the lamplight just right, sparkling brightly. Sherlock takes a sip of wine. She begins talking about the wedding—beginning plans, run-downs of possible venues, florists, bakers, caterers, dresses. Sherlock has already begun doing a bit of research on venues himself, so it is easy to go over with her (them) the pros and cons of each space—this one too open, that one too stuffy, this one won’t allow outside catering, that one will provide tables and chairs.

They are interrupted by a ding in the kitchen, and Mary jumps up. “Lasagna’s ready.”

Over dinner, Sherlock listens as John tells the story of how he and Mary met, their absolutely awful first date, their absolutely wonderful second one. He watches the lines of John’s face as he speaks, the unbridled affection in them as he looks to Mary, and something inside Sherlock’s stomach turns. He has a bite of salad and another sip of wine. The salad doesn’t help, but the wine does.

The wine makes it so that he’s marginally dulled, a bit slower, so he can’t see every smile, every place John touches Mary as he speaks (her hand, her arm, her waist, her knee with his own), every place Mary touches John in return (his shoulder, the nape of his neck, his cheek). He might _see_ all those things, but (he tells himself), the wine makes it harder to _observe_ , to know what it all _means_. To know what it means for _him_. He finishes his glass and lets Mary pour him another. It is easy to stay quiet. He has nothing to say anyway.

Mary shoos them out of the kitchen as she does the clearing up, and Sherlock and John return to their previous spots in the living room. John hands him a scotch, and they drink in relative silence. From the kitchen, there is the distant sound of the tap running, the clink of silverware and plates. But it’s easy to tune that out, to focus on this, the rich flavour of smoke in his mouth (makes him want a cigarette), the relaxed smile on John’s lips, the focus in his eyes (all on Sherlock now), the evenness of their breaths, the way their feet are not touching (but _could_ ) the way they’re not talking (but, oh--but they _are_ ).

Mary comes in with the pudding. Sherlock feels himself straighten up, pull his feet in closer to the chair, cross one leg over the other. She hands Sherlock a plate with a generous slice of banoffee pie, sets one for John and one for herself on the coffee table and curls in next to John again. Mary reaches for her plate, sectioning off a large bite and putting it in front of John’s face. It’s _appalling_.

And then, John opens his mouth and eats it. He gets a bit of cream on his nose. Mary wipes it off and laughs. They both do. (Hand, arm, shoulder, leg, nape, cheek, knee) Sherlock puts his plate down on the table and sips again from his scotch. This time, it tastes a bit bitter—probably something to do with the sweetness on his tongue from the toffee. He sips again.

“You’re not going to finish your pie?” Mary asks.

Sherlock has to shake his head to bring himself back to the present. “Oh, erm. It is delicious, Mary, but I’m afraid I over indulged at dinner. Couldn’t possibly—another bite.” His words are coming out a bit slurred—everything running together a little too much. Mary takes their plates to the kitchen and leaves them alone again. He takes another sip, finishing off his glass.

He stands, thinking it’s past time for him to get away from this little slice of suburban domesticity, but when he does, he sways a bit on his feet. John reaches out, standing, steadying him, arm around his waist. Sherlock suddenly longs for Baker Street—for dark wallpaper and smooth leather and soft sheets and silk dressing gowns and the smell of tea and the feel of the fire warming his skin, and when he drops his head onto John’s shoulder he feels it _all_. He inhales like it will save his life. But, he is not in the right place, not in the right time. The smell of Claire de la Lune is sickening in the back of his throat. It is hard to breathe around it; he is choking.

John is speaking, saying words to him (bit too much, sofa, extra pillows, sleep), but his own voice finds him (taxi, fine, lovely dinner, thank Mary).

Outside, the drizzle is cool on his face, uncomfortably wet, but it does help clear his mind somewhat. He watches a family walk together through the front door of a house down the street; he can hear their laughter, a dog barking from inside. He folds himself into the back of the taxi and gives his address, and when he shuts the door, the only sound over the engine is the rain beginning in earnest.

He promised to text John when back at Baker Street, so he does, fumbling embarrassingly much with the keypad. He drops fully clothed and face first onto the sofa, shuts his eyes, and listens to the quiet, to the nothing that surrounds him. Two years of running was too long, and even here, mission accomplished and finally home, nothing is right.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to [youngdarling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/youngdarling) for helping me make this story better :-)
> 
> I took the title and a little inspiration from the song “Hey Jealousy” by the Gin Blossoms.


End file.
